Prince of Thorns
Prologue: Enter the Players
The sky was grey and overcast. From it slashed down a veritable monsoon, ensuring that the day was cold and damp. Chill winds blew in from the north, fresh from the pine forests of Scandinavia, even though it was not yet the season for such weather.
It smelt of Winter and that was a bad thing, to his mind. An ill portent.
In short, it was the sort of day during which one desires to do nothing more than settle down on the sofa with a mug of steaming tea and spend one's time immersed in a good book. The strong winds drove the rain in every conceivable direction, drowning the world at large. Gutters overflowed with water, straining the capacity of storm drains and cisterns alike. The cold dampness sank into brickwork and mortar, but also into the bones of all who dwelt beneath the darkened heavens.
On the land, rats huddled in their underground warrens and listened to the pulsing beat of the raindrops upon tarmac, as they ran off gutters and shingled roofs. People abandoned the streets, where a freezing white mist hung in the air. They retreated to the comforts of their homes, brightened the lights, and stoked the hearth fires as water beaded on the windows. In other, darker, places, unsavory things hid themselves away and dreamt their evil dreams.
The mischievous wind was in the process, moreover, of brewing a rather nasty storm over the Channel, whose waters reflected the leaden colour of the sky. Whitecapped waves rushed about, crests rising and falling as they merged with each other, as still waters seethed up from their lowest depths. In the end, they dashed themselves against whatever solid surfaces they could find, the sea's devouring eddies slowly eating away at the famous White Cliffs of Dover.
Fingers drummed ceaselessly upon wood as their owner sat quietly, contemplating the unseasonably wintery weather, with the crash and roar of the distant surf forming a pleasant ambient noise. The salty spray from one of these waves dampened the refined smoking-jacket that ended only a few inches above the tapping fingers, and the owner raised a sleeve to his spectacles. There he carefully inspected a damp patch before lowering the sleeve to its previous position, where it was promptly wettened again.
No, Nathaniel reflected, he was not fond of England. It might well have been the country of his birth, but he had always despised the narrow streets, overcast weather, and abominable food. He supposed that it was the result of a life spent in courts across world. Given the choice, he would never have come back.
Then again, he hardly had a choice, now did he? He was practically reduced to clutching at straws, as evinced by this journey.
Spray once again soaked his frail body, and he shivered convulsively. His little awning might very well have kept the rain off, but the briny waves were another matter altogether. Really, he ought to have known better than to sit on the deck of a ship during a brewing storm. Especially during a storm that reeked of Winter, as this one did. Giving in to the inevitable, he called for his manservant.
"Jeeves! I do believe I've tired of sitting out in this dismal weather. I should like to return to my suite, if you would be so kind."
Footsteps sounded behind him, so quiet as to be inaudible to the common ear. A hand, gloved in pristine white, draped a warm throw over his shoulders and then carefully arranged it.
"I fancy it might be indeed judicious if you were to make an exit, sir," his indomitable manservant remarked quietly yet reprovingly as he took hold of the handles of the wheelchair. "It is quite likely that you should take cold if you remained out, as I have previously mentioned."
"Never you mind about my health, Jeeves," Nathaniel replied testily, running a spotted hand through his silver hair and stowing his spectacles. Jeeves' subtle jabs were not improving his cantankerous nature.
"No, sir," Jeeves replied mechanically, as he maneuvered the vehicle towards the door. "Perhaps a spot of tea and a hot compress once you've dried off might sound appealing?"
That sounded absolutely marvelous, to Nathaniel's mind. "Perhaps," he conceded, wistfully thinking of the hot sands of Arabia, or even the steamy climes of Africa or South America.
As Jeeves wrestled him through the door, and proceeded to push him down the richly carpeted halls of the private yacht, Nathaniel reached into a small compartment on one side of the wheelchair, and extracted a small, heavy bag which he began to flip back and forth over his hand. He found that such displays of manual dexterity were both amusing and useful as practice for similar things.
Eventually, this activity escalated to full-scale juggling as he passed it behind his head and through the arms of the long-suffering valet. He persisted in his antics for several minutes before his eyes suddenly widened and he bobbled the catch as his body seized up.
His withered hand grasped the arm of the wheelchair as he coughed violently, pain racking his innards.
It hurt so very much, that he almost wished for the release that death would give him.
From behind him, Jeeves produced an embroidered handkerchief and gently deposited it in his hand. Nathaniel gratefully accepted it with a trembling hand and raised it to his mouth as another spasm shook his aged frame. Eventually the fit passed and he wiped the drool from the edges of his mouth before passing the handkerchief back to Jeeves.
Jeeves examined the handkerchief closely, and found it to be stained with innumerable flecks of bloody phlegm. He raised an elegant eyebrow.
"The spasms are getting worse," Nathaniel reluctantly admitted to him. "I fear I don't have much longer left before I slough off this mortal coil."
Jeeves disposed of the soiled fabric, retrieved the bag, and then resumed wheeling his master down the opulent corridors.
"I suspected as much from the blood, sir. Shall you be wanting your tonic, then?"
Nathaniel sighed and slumped back in defeat. A headache was coming on, as often happened after such episodes. Jeeves prepared an absolutely superb concoction to remedy it after the attacks. The concoction worked even better than magic, he often thought.
"I might as well, but I should like a nice hot shower beforehand. Oh, and I suspect it might be best for you to contact Healer Bonham. Try and see if I might get my appointment moved up to tomorrow morning."
Jeeves silently nodded, understanding the man's meaning. His stoic façade wavered for just an instant and his dark brows drew together as he considered it.
Nathaniel Aculeus would either find a remedy for his malady the following day, or die tomorrow evening.
The chartered yacht arrived in London during the late evening. Jeeves magically procured, as was his wont, a chauffeur and automobile from the ranks of his colleagues. After a short drive, Nathaniel & Co. spent that night at the Langham. Nathaniel slept poorly- the fits were increasing in both intensity and frequency. Moreover, staying in a horizontal position for any length of time seemed to aggravate them even further. In a vain attempt to mitigate the symptoms he propped himself up upon pillows and did his best to doze.
As might have been expected, Nathaniel did not wish to eat anything the next morning – he really didn't desire to even think about food. His feelings, however, were no match for the relentless nagging of Jeeves, and so he partook of strawberries, coffee, and cigars (Cohiba Behike, if you please!). When this settled his stomach, he breakfasted on a perfectly seasoned cutlet, which went superbly with the fine Amontillado the hotel offered.
Jeeves excused himself to take a telephone call, as he was left alone with his own thoughts for several minutes.
For a dying man, he discovered, he really thought little about dying. Instead his mind danced with schemes to fiendishly manipulate the British Government, based completely upon the ridiculous articles in the paper before him. He abandoned his reverie, however, when Jeeves approached and discreetly whispered in his ear.
"Excellent, excellent," he coughed. "We shall go there presently, but first I have some last affairs to put in order."
Having dressed impeccably in an Armani suit of palest grey (at Jeeves' recommendation), Nathaniel waited impatiently as Jeeves summoned his truant automobile and driver.
It was startling ironic, he thought grumpily, that the driver should be late at perhaps the only time that really mattered.
As the car pulled up to the front of the hotel, another fit overtook him, and Jeeves was forced to help him enter the vehicle, a feat he was normally capable of performing himself, invalidism notwithstanding.
Nestled within the soft upholstery, Nathaniel withdrew his pocket watch and glanced at the hands.
Half past eight.
Eleven hours to live, he reflected to himself, assuming the contagion kept true to form.
All in all, Tom enjoyed being the sole owner and proprietor of the Leaky Cauldron. Business after the war was booming, and people always had time for a bite, whether it be elevenses, afternoon tea, or high tea before venturing into Diagon Alley.
Of course, this also meant customers. Lots of customers- a veritable legion of them, in fact. Now, these customers came mostly for the luncheon special, which meant that they flooded the place come noon. As such, he had to spend most of the day preparing. This included washing up the dishes and polishing the glasses.
Tom hated polishing glasses.
Make no mistake, he knew that it was the time-honored occupation of barkeeps across the civilized world. He simply could not bring himself to enjoy doing it. He thought it to be both a waste of time and slightly less than sanitary, given that he did not wash the rag regularly.
To take his mind off the tedium of his task, he would often watch the street outside. Muggles came and went, both by automobile (which he secretly found most fascinating) and on foot. Rarely did anyone step from an automobile and enter his store.
He was therefore surprised when a gleaming white vintage car pulled up in front of his humble establishment, and two persons disembarked.
The door creaked and chimes jingled softly as the two men entered his store. The first appeared to be in a very active middle age, and was smartly dressed in a dark suit, yet was not so elegantly attired that he upstaged the man behind him. He looked around the bar carefully, and then gestured for the other man to enter.
Behind him came what looked to be a very elderly man. His leathery skin was dark with spots, and his hair as silver as a Patronus. Tom was most shocked by the fact that he appeared to be riding some sort of wheeled chair contraption. He'd seen them before, but they seemed to be used almost exclusively by Muggles- there wasn't much that magic could not mend.
And indeed, several of the, shall we say, shadier clientele in the bar seem to think the man a Muggle. One of them, who was known to be something of a blood purist, immediately jumped up from his seat.
"What the deuce is a bloody Muggle doing in 'ere?" he growled at Tom, gesturing broadly towards the pair. "You said you didn't serve their kind here!"
Tom was not, unfortunately, able to provide a satisfactory answer, and so the man stalked angrily over towards the invalid.
"We don't want your kind here, Muggle," he snarled, stabbing a meaty finger at the man. "Sod off."
The older man gave an icy smile.
"I fear not, my dear sir. I have unfinished business awaiting me."
The supremacist narrowed his piggy eyes. "You'd better watch yourself," he warned. "I've a death sentence in over twelve countries on the Continent, for the use of Unforgivables. Real easy for something to happen to an old gaffer like yourself."
Nathaniel regarded him coldly, ire piqued, then spoke. "Jeeves? I do believe we've been threatened. Perhaps you'd be amenable to showing this kind gentleman the error of his ways?"
"Yes, sir."
In a flash, the man was on the ground, screaming as he cradled his broken arm. Jeeves stood over him, one hand slightly raised. His eyes gleamed with something like bloodlust and rage, and his facial features were horribly contorted, almost as if the bones had shifted. He bared his abnormally sharp teeth and reached towards the fallen man, but a voice cracked like a whip behind him.
"Jeeves! Do not forget yourself."
As soon as Nathaniel spoke, Jeeves withdrew to his customary place at his right shoulder, features returning to normal and resuming his customary placid demeanor. For their part, the other patrons of the bar turned their backs on the fallen man and went back to their drinks.
"We shall be needing to use the entrance to the Alley, Mr. Barkeeper," Nathaniel informed Tom politely as he was wheeled to the rear exit of the tavern. Tom was only too quick to agree. Seemed like he'd misjudged the chap- he spoke and comported himself more like some pureblood Lord than a Muggle. Not the kind of person he wanted to cross, that. Almost reminded him of the Old Lord Malfoy, he did.
It was always an amusing fight when Jeeves was angered, Nathaniel mused. Perhaps he ought to have let him continue, simply to see the reactions of the other occupants of the tavern. He quickly suppressed such thoughts, as they were weakness, a temptation that only his lesser brethren succumbed to.
After entering the Alley, the couple made straight for an imposing snow-white multistoried marble building clearly visible among all the hubbub in the street. People nudged and pushed past Nathaniel, but only at first. After a few seconds, he raised a finger and people were brushed cursorily out from in front of him by an invisible hand. This had the added benefit of clearing a nice, clean pathway through the discarded fruits, melted ice creams, scraps of fat and gristle, crushed candy, and leavings of a thousand other meals.
When they reached a set of white stairs leading up to a set of burnished silver doors, Jeeves simply picked up the wheelchair and carried it up without visible effort.
The doors were flanked by lesser goblins in uniforms of scarlet and gold, whom Nathaniel paid absolutely no attention to. He smiled as he always did, though, when he read the quaint little poem engraved upon the doors.
Hardly. Bloody amateurs. Still, it is probably the safest place in this particular community.
He did not wait in line, as many of the plebeians surrounding him did. Instead, Jeeves bore him over to one of the guards.
"I wish to speak with someone about my accounts, Master Goblin," Nathaniel informed him politely.
"Do I look like an accountant?" grumbled the goblin, his inhuman palate mutilating the words. "You'll have to wait in line, same as everybody else."
Nathaniel's flashed green for a split second at the goblin's reply. He emphatically disliked being told 'no.' Carefully keeping the annoyance and seething anger from his voice, he spoke once more, this time in Gobbledygook.
"I am not everybody else, sirrah, and I shall speak with Financial Manager Nagnok. Now."
At the last word, the candles on the chandeliers flickered and the shadows in the room grew to monstrous proportions, seeming to take on lives of their own.
Nathaniel knew that his physical body was a ruined shell, yes, but his mastery of arcane and unholy powers was still unparalleled. Anyone who judged him based upon his appearance alone he classified as a fool.
Was that hypocritical? he wondered, then dismissed the idea. It hardly mattered.
The soldier looked at the regal old man, and then took off at a dead run for the offices further into the building. Nathaniel settled back into his padded wheelchair with a sigh of exasperation.
"Interruptions," he murmured grumpily to Jeeves. "Always the interruptions."
"Yes, sir," his loquacious manservant sympathised.
The guard returned in relatively short order, however, and brought along a most venerable looking goblin who appeared rather out of breath.
"What is the meaning of this?" he huffed indignantly at Nathaniel.
"Ah, Master Nagnok," Nathaniel greeted him. "You are the spitting image of your ancestor, Balnog the Charred. As for further details, I daresay that this -" Jeeves held up an ebony key "- should suffice. I can tell you what I need in private."
At the sight of that particular key, the aged goblin's mouth opened and closed, much like that of a fish. After about a quarter of a minute, however, he recovered, cast a furtive glance around, and bid Nathaniel to follow him.
The odd company stopped in a well-furnished meeting room. Nagnok posted the guard outside with strict instructions to let no one come near, and then locked and bolted the doors securely.
"My lord . . .?"
"Nathaniel," the man genially replied.
"My lord Nathaniel. What might Gringott's do to aid you?"
"I believe that it is traditional," he said very seriously, "for a dying man to draw up a will, wot? Apart from that, I shall need to make a sizeable withdrawal from the Thorne Vault, as well as a small deposit to vault six hundred and sixty-six. That vault is then to be further fortified, using -"
The goblin appeared shocked. "But my dear sir! No-one has ever breached a Gringotts vault, and no-one ever shall. Moreover, we are hardly accustomed to letting our patrons place their own protections upon vaults. We have the very best security in the whole circle of the world. Our professional ethic dictates that - "
Nathaniel did not blink. "Twenty thousand, to be paid in full after the vault is secured to my satisfaction. Is that acceptable to you?"
The goblin miraculously overcame his ethical dilemma. Nathaniel didn't care for ethics, himself. Horrible things. Bad for the health.
"From your rather vacant expression, I will assume so. Now, as I was saying before I was so rudely interrupted, the aforementioned vault will use a variation of Loew's Conditional Pentacle, which I shall transcribe for you. Finally, Mr. Jeeves will assign several acquaintances of his to you. No, don't fret. You may keep them within the vault at all times. There's no danger of them attempting to open the other vaults, I assure you."
"Of course, of course," the goblin said obsequiously, wringing its hands. "It shall be just a moment. I shall call our foremost barrister, and instruct a runner to fetch whatever you may need. I shall see to the defenses of the vault myself."
"Very good, my dear sir. Mr. Jeeves here will accompany your runner to my vaults."
The goblin was a good as his word, and soon Nathaniel had his items, a secured vault, and was happily recording his will. Twenty thousand rupiahs were such a small price to pay, after all. If the goblin had misunderstood him, that was hardly his problem. After all, one always needed to be particular in all the, well, particulars.
"I, Nathaniel Aculeus, being sound of both mind and body, do leave the entirety of mine estate to one Nicodemus Archleone, his wife Polonius Lartessa, and their daughter Deirdre. Furthermore, I do . . ."
Nathaniel was very quiet on the way to St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries, simply trying to savor the comfortable feel of the cushions upon his delicate skin. But the pain was gnawing at his innards again, and he knew that was a very poor sign. If the wizards at St. Mungo's were unable to help him, he would undoubtedly die. It wouldn't be the first time, but death was never pleasant, and it could take years to find a proper host body. He did not care to be absent from the world for such extended lengths of time. Plots would come to fruition during that time, and new ground might be carefully sown.
Not that a new body would matter, given his condition.
Once more he was incapacitated by a fit, so Jeeves had to haul him out of the Rolls, place him in his wheelchair, and then activate the mannequin to St. Mungo's.
The indignity made him want to burn something to cinders.
Wizards in lime green robes bustled about through the various corridors of the building, dealing with the overcrowded waiting room as quickly as they could. Two of them bore a stretcher, with a brawny man sprawled upon it whom Nathaniel recognized.
Nathaniel caught his eye and winked. The man paled, and Nathaniel gave a vindictive smirk. He did not care for the blood purists of England. They were so very backwards when compared to the rest of the world, which held no such silly notions. Perhaps centuries of inbreeding had reduced their intelligence to that of the great apes, or even porpoises?
Then again, change was the result of both societal and physical conflict, and too long had the Wizarding World of England remained virtually unchallenged. It was a dying beast that labored for breath and had done so for centuries. Magic was the heart that sustained its sickness. Now that so many of the recent generation hailed from non-magical families, it would be interesting to see how long the old ways would survive.
Jeeves was able to approach the Welcome Witch, drop Bonham's name, and wheel Nathaniel immediately to an examination room on the fourth floor. At Nathaniel's insistence, he left and took up guarding the entryway.
He waited there for some time, amusing himself by counting backwards in Ancient Sumerian and casting sundry small spells. A heavyset, dark-haired witch then entered, hair held back in a utilitarian ponytail. She immediately introduced herself to Nathaniel as Amelia Bonham, and began to run a battery of tests upon him without further ado. As it turned out, she was forced to call in a multitude of other Healers to examine him. None of them were able to produce anything conclusive, however, and eventually Helena left to collate the results of the tests.
"Mr. Aculeus, I am afraid I have some bad news."
Nathaniel let his shoulders sag, as might have been expected of a dying man. "You cannot cure it, then?" he asked listlessly.
"I'm afraid not," the Healer apologised. "Frankly speaking, none of the other healers could find anything remotely resembling a spell on you. Even I (possibly the foremost Healer in this hemisphere, if I do say so myself) can only sense the very basics of whatever spell this is. All of them agree, though, that you do appear to be suffering from some variation of a Dark curse. The spell, whatever it might be, is hideously complex. Someone like Albus Dumbledore might be able to mitigate some of the effects, but I doubt even he could cure it."
"You are absolutely sure of this?" he questioned.
"Beyond a shadow of a doubt."
"It is of no consequence, my dear. I have lived a very, very long time. While I'd hoped you would prove able to cure me, plans are fragile things, and life often dashes expectations to the ground."
"I am glad you feel that way, sir. What is really frustrating is that had you come a few years later, or even under a different set of circumstances, I might have been able to produce different results."
Nathaniel looked up quickly, interest piqued. "Whatever do you mean by that?"
"There's been what you might call a great breakthrough in cursebreaking," Bonham explained earnestly. "It happened when He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named cast the Killing Curse-"
"He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named?" Nathaniel queried, raising an eyebrow. "Who, may I ask, is that?"
"The Dark Lord, of course. Anyway, as you know, one Hallowe'en a few years ago, he broke into the Potter's home. Slaughtered the mother and father, and then cast the Killing Curse on the child, Harry James Potter. For some reason, though, it didn't work. Instead, it rebounded and destroyed him. The child survived unscathed, from what I'm told. Now, if we had managed to study the boy, it's possible that we might have exponentially improved our ability to cure curses, but that's no longer a possibility," she finished sadly.
"Why ever not?"
"Because he's up and disappeared, of course. Can't study what you can't find."
With that, the conversation concluded itself. The delicate cobweb of spells he had cast while waiting would tamper with the memories of all that had examined him. He could not have anyone unnecessarily knowing of his condition, after all. That would be suicide, both figuratively and possibly literally.
Jeeves entered the room and began to wheel Nathaniel back out to the Silver Wraith.
For his part, Nathaniel puzzled and puzzled until his puzzler was sore. Now, he hadn't been to England in absolutely ages, and so he was somewhat surprised to hear about all the hullabaloo that had gone on in his absence. He shook his head. Was no wizard, of any type, capable of keeping out of trouble for more than a brief moment?
Based upon his most recent encounters with both wand-wizards and true wizards, he supposed not.
Nathaniel wasn't particularly concerned about the rise of yet another Dark wand-wizard, as they rarely caused many casualties. Even Grindelwald, for all the destruction he had wrought, had only been riding Kemmler's skirts.
A faint smile played over his lips. Kemmler had been such a polite young man. Always willing to listen to his elders and betters, and unclouded by conscience, remorse, or delusions of morality. He shook his head at the memories, and returned to his previous train of thought.
No, far more important was the matter of this Harry James Potter.
She'd implied that studying the child might've yielded research that could have cured him. But why bother to do that when he could go straight to the source?
"Jeeves," he said suddenly, his hopes growing, "I want you to contact Nicodemus or Tessa, whichever one can make it here by tonight. Tell them I have a last request, one that might end up restoring me."
"Yes, sir," Jeeves replied stoically.
The end had come at last. The terminus of this particular play.
As Nathaniel lay in his bed, struggling to draw another rasping breath, the shadow of Jeeves fell over him.
"Lord Archleone is here, sir," he announced.
"Well done, my faithful Jeeves," Nathaniel managed to gasp. "When I am gone, follow Nicodemus until I call for you once more. You've been of great service."
Then he turned his attention to the man standing on the other side of the bed. He was dark, even in a world without the fading colours of Nathaniel's vision. His shadow loomed behind him, terrible to behold.
"Nicodemus," he greeted him weakly. "Anduriel."
Both the man and his shadow nodded to the bedridden Denarian.
"Greetings," Nicodemus said, his voice as smooth as silk, but with a faint rasp to it. "Your servant said that you had found some way of restoring your usefulness to me."
Nathaniel was fading fast now, he could tell. Darkness was creeping into the edges of his vision.
He gestured weakly to a small bag resting on his dresser, and then spoke.
"Harry Potter. Boy-Who-Lived. Wand-wizard. Great resistance to . . . dark curses."
"Ah," Nicodemus replied, understanding. "It that it?"
Nathaniel nodded once. He could feel the last vestiges of his former strength leaving him, and he was frightened, as he was every time. He knew that he would not, indeed could not, die, but this knowledge did nothing to diminish his fear of the oncoming void. That void always reminded him of the most beautiful and horrible moment of his existence, when he had finally declared himself a free being.
That was, of course, the instant he had Fallen.
"Then I shall do it, my old friend. But always remember that it was I, not Lartessa who did this for you. Had you not defected to my service, I would not be so lenient. But in this case . . ."
Nathaniel felt Nicodemus touch something cold to his neck and shivered despite himself.
"I'll be seeing you soon, Namshiel."
He released the host and retreated back into his Coin.
Nicodemus quickly extracted something silvery from the palm of the corpse and pocketed it, then straightened himself and wiped his hands clean with a cloth. That done, he cleaned a tiny blade and secreted it on his person.
It was time to find this Harry Potter, he mused. And to learn more about this fascinating wizarding subculture Namshiel had just introduced to him